


this feels right and I'm letting it

by youngwolfbro



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8067421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngwolfbro/pseuds/youngwolfbro
Summary: Don is sent to Paris in the summer of 1945. There he thinks he can forget about what he has left behind, but the past haunts him over and over again, and he starts questioning who he was and who he is now; eventually, the past materialize as a former Lieutenant, coming to the city for unknown reasons and that needs his help to find a stay. The redhead doesn't like the idea, but since the information came through the pen of Richard Winters, that asks him to help the guy, he decides to meet him at least once - just few minutes - and to start ignoring his memories once again when the other'll be gone. But life is strange and kinda unfair, and Donald Malarkey finds himself trapped into something that he hadn't predicted - just like everything else in his damned life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, the following story takes as an inspiration the characters of the series, as portaited by the actors and HBO, not the actual veterans of Easy Company.

The Café de la Flore was quite crowded even from the first hours in the morning. He never really decided to just sit there, if he had to be honest. He wasn't the type that liked to take his coffee and his croissant - would he ever get used to the French breakfast? Don higly doubted it - with the calm that characterized the people that were surrounding him on that cool morning. He had things to do, he said to himself. Even if the war had ended, he still wore the uniform. And it came with an ironic feeling every time he put it on. Zell am See seemed like a distant - yet not blurred - memory to him even if just few months had passed since the day he had seen the Alpes disappear behind his back, but he was still a seargeant on behalf of the United States Army. There were no guns, though. No Krauts, no shooting, no Potato-mashers, no mortars and no comrades. Well, at least till that moment.  


He remembered as if it were the day before the evening in which Major Richard Winters had assigned him to this duty; it hadn't been so much, if he were to think about it. But he wouldn't have thought that even months later, the glare of the Major in that moment - the spark that he had detected in his clear eyes and that he had interpreted as joy - or the fresh air that was lightly caressing their faces, the sunlight that was slowly dying off and its reflection on the water of the large lake, would have been so vivid. One day - he told to himself - that memory would have left him, drowning in the back of his mind. There were memories, between the ones that he conserved from the time he had spent in Europe, that he knew he would never forget. He wouldn't be able to suffocate the voices inside him for so long - for the rest of his life - even if he tried with all his strenght to do so. But that morning, he didn't want to think about them. To be fair, he never wanted to think about them. It was easier to just brush them off, pretending he had nothing to run from during the night, or when he was alone. He wanted to pretend to be just an American soldier that just happened to be there, immersed in the colors of a city that he had learned to love in the past two months. He loved it like he loved daydreams: it felt like an allucination that he was having while curled up in a trench in the middle of Belgium, in a dark, cold and familiar forest. Some nights that feeling seemed more real, as if he were to open his eyes and find himself in a hole carved in the ground with his own bare hands, freezing and questioning how much he had left to live. But while his eyes were still closed, he thought, he should've tried to enjoy the light breeze blowing into his large window in the apartament that Uncle Sam's money was kindly offering him while he was there to attend the militar exhibit that was taking place in the city. He should've tried to bury the sadness, the aguish, the longing for something - someone - that wasn't even there anymore somewhere, making it hard to find even to himself. He would've pretended that war never happened. He would've pretended to be happy. He would've lied to the mirror if it was necessary. He had already tried. Paris was unsurprisingly a kind city to him; Americans were always welcomed, even by the hearts of the girls who inhabitated those unfamiliars structures that helped building that romantic and peaceful atmosphere that he needed to calm his tense nerves. He had also met that one girl, Delphine, who had painted his days in a different colour for some time. The problem was that he really, deeply wanted to act like some lovestruck youngster who didn't care of anything but the sweet embrace of the present, but he hadn't been capable to do so. He remember Delphine hands on his skin and her soft lips on his. He remembered the perfume that she left on his sheets - sweet and tender- and the way she used to talk English in that cute, insecure way, smiling at all times and trying to make him understand every word, every feeling, every sensation she was trying to communicate. They had been together for a month. Last time he had seen her was in July; the air was so dry that he almost felt like he couldn't breathe. And talking to her hadn't made it much easier. He was the one that left her behind, just like he had left behind the Alpes and everything else. The rehead had recently learned that whatever he tried to leave at his shoulders felt unresolved, something that life would have put him against again. But he couldn't continue doing that. He couldn't kiss her anymore, he couldn't look her in that cerulean eyes and see the same innocence he wished he would find in them being together in his bed, touching, whispering. It just felt wrong. He knew it was. Delphine felt like the youth that he had lost somewhere else, while she was waiting here for them to save her country, save her dear France from the evil nazis. He just couldn't pretend when she pressed her smooth hands on his chest; he couldn't pretend that he didn't wish for her hands to be stronger, rougher, coarser. It wasn't easy to watch his reflection and lie: the war never happened, he could have told to himself. But boy, staring in his own eyes and pretending that Skip Muck never happened was fucking impossible. And that thought tortured him when he laughed with her, when he cupped her face in his hands. Obviously it wasn't the same thing; Skip was a man. He had never touched him that way. He had never told him sweet and limping words in a language that he barely knew. Their relationship felt completely different, as if there hadn't been no string that connected that beautiful French woman with a dead man. But someway, somehow, he just knew that every time he was about to get even closer to her, the image of Warren was suddenly so distinct, so near, that he nearly felt guilty when trying to go on. Damn, he felt guilty to breathe, to have the sunshine touch his skin every morning, to be able to talk, smile, joke.  


August had been a strange month, up to that moment. He took a bite out of his French delice - even if he really just wanted his good ol' bacon and eggs, which were considered out of place for breakfast, as it seemed- while eyeing at the newspaper that a man not far from him was reading. Having been in Paris for two months now, he could at least understand and say some words. Enough to understand what had happened few weeks before.  
The war had ended. This time for real.  


Just few months later than Bastogne, later than Foy, the war had ended. Suddently he was forced to remember his comrades. Donald was just glad, really. He liked to imagine Luz walking back to where he belonged, in a place where he didn't have to deliver cigarettes and chocolate to desperate friends. But why think about the past and about that faces that trapped him in it? He wanted to think about the future, the present, the now, the scent of the hot coffee and the sweet flavour that warmed up his mouth. The problem was one: he had passed the last two months trying to forget what he had left behind and, according to the letter he had received a week before, now the exact same thing was coming after him, as if it craved to chase him down. Well, not exactly. But one of the blurred figures that seemed to fit only in a foxhole was to sit to his table any minute now. How would he find the café? He didn't care. To be honest, he was quite sure that he wasn't in the mood to see the man that was going to arrive in such a short time. He always had mixed feelings for him and they hadn't really started off as great friends. He didn't hate him, though. The fact was that Ronald Speirs was the kind of man that he never quite imagined as fitting in the real world,or whatever came after the fighting. He was a militar and lieutenant even before being a man. That was his definition. And that being the cause, he wasn't thrilled to meet his gaze again and to find himself talking with the Lieutenant about the good old times in which they were shooting Germans and Germans were shooting at them. He remembered being in what he would have called good terms with him in the last days; he had learned to see him for what he was. He was just a soldier, like him; he was different, anyone would have agreed with him. Sometimes he found himself thinking him as cruel, then as a comrade, then as a child that was looking for toys on the battlefield - dedicating to them more interest than the one his own life would have deserved, or at least so it appeared. He always remained a mystery. And he wasn't making things more easy to comprehend now that Winters had informed him that Speirs was going to reach him in Paris. He needed a guide to the place, clarified the Major, nothing more, nothing less. He didn't want to meet Don in particular, but he was probably the best reference he had in the whole France. So the hell with it, he just needed a talk to understand the city, right? They wouldn't have spent much time together. Donald just wanted to make it fast and painless. He wasn't sure, though, that that was the case. The image of the Lieutenant reminded him of a fear he hadn't remember to have felt during his first mission, of a dark side of his memory that he didn't want to visit. The Days od Days was slowly emerging from his memory like a wound that opened itself up with no real reason; he could see the dark, the explosions, the fire. He could even hear the screams if he didn't concentrate in remaining connected to the reality. He could even feel his eyes filling with tears. But was that happening in Normandy or was that happening at the table at that characteristic café at the Rue of Beaux Arts? He swore he had met the fellow soldier's eyes while he was casually walking in front of him. He had just killed some war prisoners. He had just killed some guy coming from Eugene. He had just killed men. But that was war, he tried to justify him for some seconds. But really, how could an human being kill another with such cold blood, knowing that war prisoners were not to be touched? But then again, that was war. A cloud of smoke surrounded Speirs' firm feautures, swallowing the picture of his serious and distant face. But his eyes remained vivid. It was the only peculiarity that stood in the obscurity of his figure. Black paint covered his face, black messy and greased hair came out of his dark helmet. But his eyes were clearer than the sky, bright in the abstruseness of that wood, of that situation, of that moment. So bright, that they almost made him feel uncomfortable. The stare of the Lieutenant was so fixed, that made him question whether he was looking at him or over him, to something greater, more important, something else. Or maybe someone else. Futile questions, really. Especially considering that the night, the cold, the uniform and even the person that was staring at him were nothing but a sensation that he had let go too far, to the point that he nearly had mistaken for actual truth. Or had he?

  


‹ Sergeant Malarkey. ›  


He was shaken back to reality with sudden violence by an husky and known voice. Were two words enough to shock him that much? Well, obviously, considering that it appeared that his allucitanion had just talked to him. Or, most probably, that the eyes that he had saw in his imagination had finally arrived - along with their owner - to his table at the local where he had waited him for a time span that barely reached the twenty minutes, according to his wrist watch.  


‹ Oh. Oh! › He jerked off his seat and smiled uncomfortably, meeting the gaze of the person that had just spoken up and that was now looking at him with a perplexed expression painted over his visage. ‹ Good morning, Lieutenant Speirs ›, he had answered, following the greeting of the brunette and streching his hand to shake it with the other's one. The man reached it, continuing to look at him intently, an eyebrow raised, but without making any comment. Don frowned a little, without stopping to smile. When he had seated again at the place he had occupied, he finally realized what was so weird with him. The tears that he thought were just a part of his memory were in fact in his eyes, making them shiny. He knew this sensation; he never really cried though. Every feeling that brought him to that point was just swallowed with the water that wetted his glare and forgetten as soon as possible. He chuckled softly, even if he was clearly faking it. He never was good when it came to act as everything was alright. That was Luz and Perconte's duty. But now he was off alone. He had to learned, he figured.  


‹ It's nothing, it's just - allergy ›, he justified himself, making a gesture over the nearer vase of flowers - that were beautifully in blossom, even if not for long probably, as Summer came to an end.

Speirs shrugged, making him understand that he didn't really care, before searching in the pocket of his obsidian jacket a cigarette. Lucky Strikes, obviously, thought Donald as he observed his movements. He wasn't wearing his uniform, just a white shirt - opened enough to let him see his chest hair - a jacket and a pair of trousers of the same colour of his hair. He wasn't there for the same reason Don was.  


‹ So, why here in Paris? ›, he asked then, pulling off another smile - this time less unsure, more like him. He had to admit that seeing that he hadn't come because of duty had awaken his curiosity, and he had to think of a way to talk to that guy anyways, considering he never was quite the talkative kind of person. Not with him, anyways. He had learned to know him better when he had become platoon Sergeant and when Speirs had taken up the company, but they weren't exactly intimate. Sometimes they would share the same room to talk about plans and strategy. Other times, they would share a look, a smile, a word. Nothing less, nothing more.  
The man glared distractedly at the surface of the table, where he had laid the hand that wasn't occupied by the cigarette, before meeting his eyes with an equally distracted look drawn in his.  


‹ No reason. We were here in Europe anyways, so I figured that before returning the States I could as well visit this city ›, he answered calmly. He had a point; many of them would have never returned to Europe during their entire lives. They could have as well tried to make some new, better memories about that place. Maybe - just maybe - they would have replaced the bad ones.  


‹ Well, you will surely enjoy it. At least, I loved it so far ›, he commented, enlarging the fold on his lips. ‹ Winters told me you would need a guide to the place, so whatever you need to know, feel free to ask ›, he remarked then, even if the two of them knew exactly why they were there, together. The other raised an eyebrow in response, in a way that made Malarkey feel like he should have asked pardon for. ‹ Since war's finally finished and we are no longer soldiers, I figured we might drop the grade ›, he said uncertainly, frowning a bit and asking himself if that was what had caught the brunette's attention.  


‹ If we're no longer soldiers, then why are you wearing that? ›, he just asked casually, before taking a long drag out of his smoke, without loosening the eye contact. A thing he knew for sure was that the man in front of him was clearly able to look someone in the eye while killing him. He wasn't used to not looking people right in their fucking souls while speaking apparently; or at least, that was the impression he had made till that moment.  


‹ Oh, in June Major Winters sent me here to overwatch an aviation exhibit ›, he corrected himself, before shrugging. Another thing about Speirs that made him go crazy was that he seemed to always judge you. No matter what you did, it seemed like he was weighing if you were someone worth spending his time with. He never was quite sure to get him at the point to understand what he was thinking - was it even possible to do so, when his thoughts did not regard robbing an house that he was occupying? Did he ever think about something that wasn't connected to his necessity to get in his hands evrything shiny? - but just the sensation that he might as well been doing so didn't make him feel alright, not with his eyes on him.  


‹ I will be here till the end of August, when the display is finished. Then I'll be back in good ol' Oregon. ›  
Even so, he remember being comfortable around him when the war was coming to an end. He remembered looking at him like someone who would cover his shoulders and that actually cared about his men. A flash of what had happened when Grant was shot, right in Zell am See, invaded his minf for a spare second, that felt like a lifetime. The rage he had felt didn't seem so actual as the rage that Speirs had brutally displayed, burning so hot that had made silent the same men that moments before were kicking the hell out of another soldier that he had threatened to kill. His punch, the shiver he had sent down Donald spine with the coldness of his voice and his fierce yet trembling hand. He could see it in front of him. It lasted a second. He never quite grasped what kind of man Ronald Speirs really was. Cruel? Caring? Maybe crazy? Or brilliant? When he had thought he'd figured it out, something he said or something he did put him out of route again, more confused than before.  


‹ You have family there? A girlfriend? › He asked, maybe a little bit nosy, or maybe he was just trying to conversate without using the term ' enemy ', just like him.  


‹ Family ›, he answered dryly, but without letting his smile grow dim. He had left his girlfriend when she decided to take a different path from his. Another thing that was better not thinking about. Her face, in spite of others that he wished he didn't remember that precisely, was blurred, almost unrecognisable. Not that he wanted to recall what he had lost to his foolishness. Why did he miss her so much and so suddenly? Bernice was part of a past that he didn't feel so near - she was his highschool sweetheart. Her name felt like home, one of the few in the meanders of his thoughts. Ronald just nodded, giving him that unimpressed look he had preserved during the whole conversation.  


‹ What about you? Will your trip in Europe last long? ›  


‹ I don't know ›, Speirs answered back, motionless. 

‹ Might as well go back home after this. › His tone was monotone and he was eyeing to something distant, untouchable, that Don couldn't quite catch. It was ironic how quiet the other may have seemed to who would have met him from that moment on. No more Killer, or Bloody, as his comrades liked to call him. Just Ron, a peaceful - nearly numb - guy from around the corner.  


‹ Well, if this will be the only place you'll visit, you've got the right pick. Where are you staying? ›, he asked, finally, taking a sip from his not so warm coffee.  


‹ Where are _you_ staying? ›

  


  


  


_____________________

  


  


  


  
An evergreen tree might as well have made him think of immortality.  
They standed fierce and compat above the snow, still alive, unconrcerned of the freezing cold that surrounded them. But it took just a second to make them disappear in fire. Flames ate them up within seconds. He hadn't really had the time to observe them as they burnt away and turned to ashes from his foxhole, but he knew that first they were there. Then there was nothing but dust in the wind, that twirled gently at the rhytm of the earth, a whisper in the terrifying silence after the storm. His feet were cold even though he wore boots. He had his reasons to walk alone in the forest. He just didn't happen to remember them. He could watch every grain of ash being dragged by the soft breath of the breeze, and every each one of them whispered him a nostalgic story of a wasted and lost youth. The trees that were all around him spoke to him with a kind, sad voice, telling him what they would do if they had the possibility to go home again. They told him about women, work and future, as if it was something they could've had. But most of them were broken and just few of them still standed tall and untouched by the heat. Everything was calm now, but he still felt the adrenaline running through his veins, pushing to make him run away from there. But still, he walked slowly into the neverending background of his sufferences, feeling a sense of emptyness that enlarged as he took step after step. He wasn't just alone. He was lonely. Something was missing and he couldn't shake that feeling off him. He felt each time colder. The forest kept talking to him, kept telling him stories, about Philly, about the Niagara Waterfalls. Place he had never seen that somehow felt so close now, as if he was the one that should've returned there. Donald looked around him in confusion. Why was he alone? Why was he so alone? He pulled his eyebrows together, turning around as if possesed by a sudden despair. And then shadows started appearing and disappearing just as fast as they'd come into his sight.  


‹ Dam it! You ever threathen again Malarkey and I'll kill you! ›, he heard a voice - that appeared so distant he couldn't quite grasp where it came from. His eyes widened; the man that had said those words, many years ago at the bootcamp, was hidden somewhere in that damned maze. 

‹ Gotta get up! ›, he heard, recognizing the same person in that ruspy murmur. He was screaming, but he was so far away that he barely heard him.  


‹ Joe! ›, replied Don, shouting, to make the other hear. ‹ Joe, wait - I'm coming! I'm coming for you! Joe - ! › But all his words appeared vain. Another whisper in the air hushed him, telling him to wait there. He almost upsetted him just how much those voices and those sentences where familiar. It upsetted him more to remember in which occasion he had heard them for the last time. 

‹ Wait Bill, I'm coming with - ›  


An explosion. Screaming. And then, the fear came back again, with all her might, tearing him apart from the inside. He found himself crawled on the ground, hands on his helmet, without knowing what to do. But, deep down, he knew he couldn't do anything. Those things had already happened. And they were happening again. He wanted to stop them to do so. He just couldn't. He remembered staying in his trench, waiting anxiously for Guarnere to return. He remembered his lungs shaking and he remembered just how many times he asked himself whether he should have followed Wild Bill on that stunt or not. But he wasn't Bill Guarnere. He wasn't that brave. He remained in his trench, scared for his life and for his friends. For his brothers. But the other man never returned.  


‹ Medic! › This time, it was Buck. Obviously he was there. They weren't like him. The had courage, they had the balls to go and help Joe, to give him a hand even if they knew that doing so they might have lost it.  
Then, the silence reigned again. The distinct sound of the mortar died to the painfull peace that that place held between an attack and the other.  
He didn't get up. He didn't want to. But then again, the quietude of that situation didn't last long. This time he heard muffled words float around him.

‹ No friend of mine crawls anywhere. ›  


He began trembling. He couldn't be there, could he? He turned slowly his head, wanting to meet his brown eyes. He remembered falling on his knees while he was standing on the chow line; Donald had fallen apart, all of a sudden. Everything was just exhausting and made him question wheter he would have ever seen his brothers, his sister, if he would have touched his mother hands. Sometimes he thought about Bernice and about how much she reminded him of when he was younger, so foolish yet so, so happy. But he had never gone through that alone. All the company was behind him, to get him back up. There where Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere, the thoughest men that anyone would have ever met during their whole lives. There was Buck, reliable, fun, with that smile that could warm up and cheer up every each one of them, knowing that he was there to guide them. There was Penk and his exhilarating whining over literally everything. And, well, there was Skip, the funniest guy he had ever known, his best friend since they'd talked to each other for the first time. The hand that always pulled him out of his misery, making him remember that they weren't still dead, that they were alive and that while they were breathing, they should've at least try to enjoy it. Some days, Muck made him remember what was the point in breathing, being able to talk, to walk, to look. Some days, he prevented him from being dead even before he stopped breathing. He was the representation of life itslef, he gave him hope, he made him understand why it was so beautiful and marvelous having his heart still beating, feeling they hearts beat together, while they were laughing or even while they were bitching about the weather. When he came to his rescue, things suddenly started to fell into their place. That day was one of them.  
His movement was gradual. Don found brown, caring eyes in front of him. But not the ones he was hoping to encounter.  


‹ Don. . .it's about Muck ›, started off Sergeant Lipton. He shivered and just stared at him with wide eyes. He knew how this sentence would end. He knew what Lipton would have said. He shook his head, without interrupting the link between his glare and the soldier's one.  


‹ No. . . ›, he whispered softly at first. ‹ No. No. No. › His tone grew with intensity, as his movements became more frenetic. He found himself screaming to cover the words he didn't want to hear. He put his hands on his ears. Another explosion bursted and then, everything was just an indistinct, noisy shade of his own pain.

  


He woke up to a summer night.  
The first thing he saw were the white curtains gracefully dancing, even if from there he couldn't catch a glimpse of the sky that was probably starry and clear, considering the quantity of light that he could detect; again, the peace after the storm. He found himself ventilating and still shivering. Then, a sound broke out through the room. Someone was knocking at his door. Whou could have been? He didn't want to open, anyways. He didn't want anyone to see him so weak - he imagined being sweaty and pale, he still couldn't breathe properly. He was holding his crucifix tight in his right hand he realized then - so tight it hurted. He didn't answer. But the sound repeated itself, followed by just one word.  


‹ Malarkey? ›  


Don was struck by the realization: the person that wanted to see him at - what time it was again? - was Lieutenant Speirs. He looked blankly at the door for some seconds. It probably was his fault if the nightmares had come back. Not that they had really ever stopped, but they were less frequent and usually he didn't remember them so well when he found himself in his perfumed sheets. He didn't know what to think. Was it really ok to blame him for his own ghosts? It probably was just stupid. This nights would have come even in he would have never heard of Lieutenant Ronald Speirs again during his whole life. Yes, he was a reminder that war happened, indeed. But would his absence have changed anything? With his beige uniform staring at him from across the room - he had just left it on a chair, after folding it precisely, as he was always told to do - and wearing it nearly everyday, could he really try to pretend that it had no meaning for him? He had tried to force himself to do so and he had forced himself into believing it was working when it trully wasn't. Anyways, he didn't even see the brunette that often: during the day he attended his duty, while the other did . . .whatever he was doing. Visiting the city, probably. Or maybe he just enjoyed his staying in the marvelous hotel in which both had decided to stay; the army granted him the staying till the end of the exhibit, while probably Speirs was there on his own means. That meant lots of money, but he wasn't going to stay too long, so he figured it wold be okay. It wasn't his business, in any case. L'Hôtel - that was its name, as dumb as it may have sounded - was a beutiful place to stay in. His room was spacious and bright - thanks to the big window that he usually kept open -, the bed was large and comfortable, the sheets were always fresh and he had furniture he didn't even have at home. Basically, it was totally out of his league. But there he was: he has a room in one of the most ancients, most beautiful hotels in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and he had no one who could've shared it with, no one who would have listened to him bragging about his luck. Well except. . .even if he higly doubted that he would have liked listening to him while talking about how lucky he was to get this work.  
He reluctantly let go his crucifix, stood up and eliminated the distance between him and the door, giving it the last long look before opening it lazily. He wanted to appear casual, as if nothing had happened.  


‹ What? ›, he just asked, eyes half-closed and his fatigue painted on his face in the form of a perplexed frown and a confused look.  
The other just looked at him for an instant. His eyes were shining brightly in the sweet penumbra that the moon provided for them; they were just like he remembered. His pupils were dilateted by the darkness, but his glare didn't lost the authority that - nearly - never failed to affect the people around him. Now, differently from the picture of him that had ambushed him few days before, his eyes were staring directly at him, as if Speirs was seizing him.  


‹ Can I come in? ›, he replied without giving him a real answer. Don was taken of guard. Could he really say no without even knowing what did the other want to do?

‹ Sure ›, he said then - even if he really wasn't. He moved to let the other enter. They both weared an undershirt, but Speirs had had the decency to at least put on a pair of black trousers - unsurprising, he had seen him with black clothes every time he had met him - and a belt. The redhead on the other hand was in his boxers - and found nothing wrong with it. He was sleeping. He wasn't supposed to be fully dressed at that time. Also, he was quite sure that none of them would have felt uncomfortable, considering their past experiences.  
Ronald walked over to the first chair he found and seated calmly, pulling out a cigarette. He then raised a brow and offered the packet to the other.  


‹ Care for a smoke? ›  


‹ Just what I needed ›, answered him, taking one of them from him and nearly laughing remembering how scared some people was to accept an offer like that from the Lieutenant. He had shot the prisoners, yes. And he was one of the people that gossipped about him killing a fellow man, too. But they were so far from that right now; everything felt actual, and the Lieutenant made him feel like every little thing that he had forgotten had been drawn back to him. But Speirs didn't have a gun, nor the power to use it anymore. That didn't make him any less grim than he always was, anyways. His dark figure was a silent shadow and for a little time - that semmed too long - he couldn't even see his expression. But then, he gave him his profile, gazing towards the window, as if he was stargazing.  


‹ So. . .I will repeat the question I made you before ›, started off again Malarkey, looking intently at him. ‹ What? ›, he asked with the same tired and confused tone he had used earlier. The Lieutenant's irises moved over to inspect him.

‹ I heard you screaming. Problems with nightmares? ›  


The way he had just asked so casually about it irritated him enough to make him snap back. ‹ Shouldn't you be sleeping? It's none of your business anyways. › It seemed just logical to make him understand how much he didn't want to talk about that, and not so lightly. He also felt kind of humiliated; he hoped to be that kind of person that was capable of suffering in silence, without the whole world knowing. Thinking that he could've heard something made him uncomfortable, made him feel vulnerable.  


‹ Would you sleep well if someone in the room next to yours was screaming? › He didn't change expression, just asked as if he was talking about the weather, some trivial discussion that didn't really have any weight. But then he had tilted his head forward a little bit, giving a look to the floor and then meeting again his eyes.  


‹ That's it. Goodnight, Lieutenant. ›  


Speirs got up without protesting. When he spoke up again, his hand was on the doorknob.  


‹ I was just wondering why would you scream names during the night in that way. ›  


‹ Whose name? ›

‹ Lipton's. ›

And that were his last words. The door opened and closed and Don heard the firm steps of the other getting softer as he entered again in his room. He looked at his cigarette. Obviously it would be because of Lipton. He always thought that between the two of them there was something quite special; they seemed to care about each other, they spent lots of time together. They kind of reminded him Skip and himself. But that would have been just foolish, wouldn't it? The four of them were very different people, there was no way in which a comparation like that would have felt appropriate. He took his last drag from the smoke, before pressing it against the flat surface of the ashtray that he kept on his wooden tea table.  


He remembered seeing Speirs and Lipton together - covered in dirt but smiling, somehow, speaking gently, as if around them everything was still fine, as if everything around them was nice. Maybe - just maybe - he thought, maybe it was them that could make each other's life look a little less miserable. Maybe just their presence. But it was probably a mistake, thinking of them that way. How he felt around Skip, what he felt for him, was uniquely wrong, special in its way of being rotten. Not everybody clinged at people the way he did, he thought, gazing outside the window and feeling his face being bathed in the silver light that the moon casted mildly.  
Peraphs nobody clinged to a friend the way he did.  
What he knew was that nobody should.

 

  


  


________________________

  


  


  


  


He didn't really knew what had got him there.  
Well, he surely knew that he was sitting in one of the places more well-known in the whole, damned world. It was so surreal to be there, a place that he had thought he would never see with his own eyes, magnificent just as everyone imagined - if not even more, considering how astonishing was to actually find yourself in front of such an imponent, enormous, complex structure. And he was just staring at it, following the straight movements of the iron bars that interwined in a firm yet lovely way. It held a grace that was inexplicable if not thanks to a spell that the tower casted on you as a symbol. It was not just a tower. It was the thing you would always remember when talking about Paris, about France, about yourself there. For example, Don clearly remember what it felt like to walk on the Champ de Mars for the first time. That Sunday, the day his train stopped, was the first day of the rest of his life and it promised a brand new direction to it. He still held a shadow of the smile he had that day in his heart. The hope that had filled him when he had arrived, the one that had made him believe that this place could have changed everything he was and everything he had inside, was still so strong and oh, so beautiful. He associated that sweet warm feeling with his first encounter with Delphine, too. He remembered meeting her eyes at the Closerie de las Lilas, he remembered pretending to understand something on the newspaper he was reading and then catching the eye of the marvelous blonde girl that was sitting just a few steps from him. He remembered them smiling while looking at each other and he remembered asking her help to read. He remembered showing her the exhibit he was supervising and he remembered her grasping his hand and run to a certain model of airplane - that he didn't remember -, making questions, laughing and just leaving her hand in his, with a naturalness that in that brief, amazing, moment, felt as the most right thing he had ever felt. But everything just faded slowly as Paris began being part of his routine. The flowers, the voices, the distinct noise of the pulsing heart of France just became normal, even ordinary, some days. All the colours that had invested him on that first Sunday, when his foot touched the platform and made that dream palpable and real, became just different shades of grey. Even Delphine's smile just seemed off. At first he had thought that he had felt that way because he thought he didn't deserve her. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was that yes, he loved her, but not the way he wanted to. It probably isn't the kind of love that a man ached to have his whole life if every time she touched him he just wished to hold other hands. And it was that wish - that desire - that made him realize just how filthy, how wrong he was. He had managed to ruin something as beautiful as what he had with Skip by wishing it was something else. He had made it rotten. And even if the guilt suffocated him at times, his memories remaines intact, bright in a dark past. Sometimes, when his gaze fell behind his back - to when his worries could be semplified with the words ' killing the fucking nazi bastard ' - he found himself wishing to return to that past in which everything was clearer; terrifying, but clearer. Sometimes, when he fell desparate for his friend's company, he wished to go back in time, when he was still next to him, even if they were freezing in Bastogne. Then he told himslef that he was crazy and avoided to think about it for as much long as he could.  
The night before, he couldn't. Nightmares were getting real bad. Two days before, he had waken up screaming, still holding his crucifix, so strong that it had made his right hand bleed, where the material was enough sharp to harm him. He had done it the night before too, and the one before that. But two days before being there, sitting on the Champ de Mars, he had heard steps. They had reached his door and they had stopped. He had held his breath. He could suspect who it was and didn't really think that he wanted to see him. Speirs talked as if he didn't know what a nightmare felt like - or what a fucking human emotion felt like, to be honest. But after that there was just a long - or was it? - period of silence. He could almost see the Lieutenant right in front of his door, his hand up as if he were to knock. But nothing happened; or at least till he heard the steps again, getting alway farther from his room. He had wanted to ignore them, but whene he realised the air he had been keeping in his lungs, it took him even more than the average to fall asleep.  
Why didn't he knock? Why would he come to his room without entering? The questions didn't have an answer. Or maybe they had, but it raised just more of them. Was it possible that Speirs actually cared about what made him cry fo someone when the lights went out?

He was distractedly looking to the Tour Eiffell, finding himself mute - even his thoughts were silent, his mind was quiet, he just felt empty. It was Sunday, like the first day he had seen that place. But everything was different even if nothing had happened. Or at least, nothing had happened on the surface.  
He felt the grass brush lightly near him, catching his attention. Someone had squatted down next to him, as if he wanted to face him. But the man wasn't trying to look him in the eye: he was just glaring over the same direction he was looking at just a few moments before. He had a plain, somehow troubled expression - but Don had learnt that that frown was what naturally rested on his muscles, without the other actually realizing it or caring about it - and he was lighting a cigarette - unsurprisingly. He had remained in silence for some time; neither him or Malarkey seemed to be interested in engaging a conversation. Don actually felt quite comfortable even without words, returning to the same position the brunet had found him in, head turned to the landscape. It was nearly weird, to be near to a person that you actually know so little - but who shares so much with you - but feeling relaxed as if them weren't there - or as if they had always been. At the end, it was his low voice the first to be heard.  


‹ What are you looking at? ›  


Ronald Speirs' question was a simple one, and it did have a simple answer to.  


‹ Nothing. › He just said, raising a brown and maybe trying to find an answer himself.  


‹ Always been the thoughtful guy, I guess. ›

This made Don crack a small smile and turn his gaze to Speirs. ‹ Never thought that someone would have ever said something like that to me. › 

Ronald frowned a little bit more.  
‹ Well, either that or you're just really dumb ›, he had replied with a flat tone and then met Don's eyes. Just then, he smiled - evidently saisfied enough, maybe because of his way of mocking the redhead, or maybe because of the face he had probably made when he had done so.  


‹ Well, fuck you too. › He probably seemed quite pissed off - because he was - but he was also actually quite glad to be able to have a normal conversation with that man. Just to be sure that he was actually human. Maybe he was even glad to see him smile and probably he just wanted the Lieutenant to make him smile. 

‹ Did you come here to mock me or there's an actual reason? ›  


Speirs shrugged. ‹ I don't need a reason to be here, do I? ›, he asked retorically. Don had to agree with him: it was one of the most beautiful places in Paris, and on that Sunday, the sun was kissing their skin without being aggressive, pointing out that the Summer was faintly running away from their fingers, without them even noticing.  


‹ You made your point ›, he replies, raising a brow and letting his smile bloom again.  


‹ Why are you here, then? ›  


Don didn't answer straight away.  


‹ I don't know. I just. . .this place reminds me of when I've arrived here the first time, you know? › He continued looking in front of him, without really giving interest to anything his eyes were catching. 

‹ I was just spacing out, to be honest. ›  


‹ You really like it here, right? ›  


Don shrugged. ‹ I guess so. Everyone likes Paris. You never get used to it, am I right? Never been the travelling type, though. › Not that he had the possibility to do so, before volunteering. He didn't sound as enthusiathic as he thought he would have been, or as he had wished to be. It didn't really like the idea of Speirs reading what he was feeling behind his own words, but then again he always was so transparent. It wasn't difficoult to understand how Donald Malarkey was feeling, truly. His eyes, his tone, everything just unmasked him - as if he was wearing a mask in the first place.  


‹ Homesick, huh? ›  


The redhead weighed his words for a few moments, before speaking up again. The brunet was right. He did miss Oregon, he missed the people that waited for him there. And very soon he would've met them again.  


‹ Yeah, maybe. › He paused. ‹ Aren't you? ›  


Some silence followed. The other man's voice came out even lower than the usual, while he was exhaling light, dancing smoke. 

‹ Yeah. Yes, I am. › Now it was him that was looking somewhere in the distance, probably at nothing in particular. Air gusted suddenly over them, shaking his dark hair, confirming that the end of the daylight was near, as the pale blue sky stained with traces of light colour had suggested. It also reminded him that August was about to finish too, that he would have been gone in a few time. And that even sooner than him, Speirs would have vanished. It was a case to meet him at a time like that. They probably had different time tables, because he had never catched him moving in the hotel; Don just heard him time to time while he was - quietly as ever - putting some order in the room next to his. Just like he had arrived, he would dissolve in that soft Parisian air, never to be found again. This could have been the last time he met him. He hadn't realize that, since his glare had bolted again at the mute figure, he hadn't stopped wtching him. And he hadn't realized, till that moment, that those eyes - that seemed so dark at times and so bright others, just like the damned woods they could make him think of -, that mouth, that expression, that voice, were details that he had been trying to register in the peaceful stillness that surrounded them.  


The man of mysteries was about to disappear from his life forever.  
Might as weel trying to solve one - he told to himself.  


‹ Then why don't you go there? ›, he asked carefully, tilting back - just a little bit - his head and looking over the Lieutenant. Silence was again the first answer. The man's hand went to cover briefly his face, while the cigarette butt - deprived of anything that could have been smoked - still held between his fingers. Hand went down, and he turned to face him, for the second time during the whole conversation.  


‹ I don't think I can. ›

The first star appeared, prelude of the long night that awaited.  
A flock of swallows was flying over their heads, drawing harmonious pictures in the back of Don's eyelids; he wouldn't have remember them, but he would remember the whisper of the wind slithering trough the grass and the fronds.  


‹ Why? ›  


Another smoke was pulled out. It was a Lucky Strike. Best brand around, anyways.  


‹ It doesn't exist anymore. › It was surprising, how he could say something like that and maintain his voice so firm, so austere.  


‹ What do you mean? › As always, Ronald Speirs sounded cryptic and he couldn't really see where that was going. He never could.  


‹ I mean that last time I felt at home, I had a goddam rifle in my hands, Malarkey. That's the last time I felt at home. › 

This time his tone had gotten fired up; something had clicked inside of him. Maybe it was one of those things you don't even want to admit to yourself. How can you talk about something you wouldn't want to think? Don had lots of those. Things he didn't want to admit.  
He watched him. At first, he had felt neatly his expression change - surprise, maybe something that resembled to terrified confusion; then, his muscles relaxed calmly and he swallowed loudly. He found himself smiling. It was so ironic that himself and the person that he tought was the most different in the world from him felt so similar at a time like that. The Sergeant pressed his brows together and chuckled lightly, with a shade of bitterness hided behind the smirk. The man with dusky hair, catched his eyes; he didn't seem serene as he was at the start of their talk, but he didn't seem too nervous either. The only thing he could detect was the perplexion that dominated above everything else - other sensations seemed to be mixed all over Ron's eyes, but they weren't as strong as that.  
Sensing he wanted an explenation, he just gave him.  


‹ We passed our time there wishing for it to disappear. Then it does, and we can't do anything but fucking look behind. › 

He sounded almost melancholyc. He was, probably. He had left the only thing that had made him happy - not glad, happy - during those difficoult years in the past and now he feared that he wouldn't have been happy at all, not anymore. How can you survive your own spirit? He knew that at least a part of him - and he suspected that it was a lot more - had died in that foxhole, in front of Luz's eyes.   


He felt Ronald's hand on his shoulder, and wasn't sure wheter he was trying to comfort him or trying to find something to hold on to. What he knew was that the contact felt warm, right, needed. No explation was needed though, no words, not a sound.  
It was a Sunday when he had arrived in the city; he had felt the happiest man alive, he had felt like he was about to start breathing again and then he had felt like suffocating into his mind. He had been alone the whole time, even when he was surrounded by people and smiles.  
On that Sunday he was sad. He knew he was broken. But it was comforting knowing that he wasn't alone. Not anymore.  


**Author's Note:**

> So! Thanks for reading, first of all! I know that this couple is unheard of and yeah, you can hate me for thinking about this, but I just couldn't ignore it! Anyways, English is not my first language, so if you spot some errors - in grammar or phrasing - please tell me, I would be glad to correct them or at least to learn more through them! Also, this is my first fic in English & my first fic on this site, as well as the first fic in this fandom, so yeah, hoped you liked it!


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